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the moment I could hardly believe my own ears. Gone? When had they gone? Where had they gone? Why had they gone? What could have induced them to leave England so suddenly? I endeavoured to question the hall porter on the subject, but he could tell me nothing save that they had departed for Paris on the previous day, intending to proceed across the Continent in order to catch the first Australian boat at Naples.

Feeling that I should only look ridiculous if I stayed cross-questioning the man any longer, I pressed a tip into his hand and went slowly back to my own hotel to try and think it all out. But though I devoted some hours to a consideration of it, I could arrive at no satisfactory conclusion. The one vital point remained and was not to be disputed—they were gone. But that evening brought me enlightenment in the shape of a letter, written in London and posted in Dover. It ran as follows:

2em

"—Something terrible has happened to papa! I cannot tell you what, because I do not know myself. He went out this morning in the best of health and spirits, and returned half an hour ago trembling like a leaf and white as a sheet. He